


stars aren't born, they're made

by zxrysky



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pining, it's the pining, maybe a little bit of angst?, that small angst bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 17:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxrysky/pseuds/zxrysky
Summary: It’s the middle of the night, he’s bored out of his mind, and there’s no one online to text.And then his phone starts to vibrate, and Ryuji almost drops it with how he jolts in response. Yusuke’s name blares across his screen, the incoming call clear as day, and Ryuji squints at the small time shown at the top right-hand corner.He picks up. “You know, it’s one-fifty in the morning. You know that, right?”





	stars aren't born, they're made

**Author's Note:**

> commission for obstinaterixatrix on tumblr! thank you so much and i hope you liked it <3

It’s the middle of the night, he’s bored out of his mind, and there’s no one online to text. Alright, Ryuji thinks, amending that statement: Futaba’s _always_ online, twenty-four seven, as if that girl doesn’t sleep at all, but he doesn’t exactly want to keep up with her steady stream of emojis right now. She’s a great conversationalist, especially online, where she types as fast as she thinks, but he just wants a calm conversation that will lull him to sleep.

 

Makoto would probably kick his ass if he started texting her out of nowhere, even if they’d been getting closer recently. She’d probably run him over with her motorbike. Ryuji would probably let her, if he’s being honest. That’s the best chance he has at being physically close to such a beautiful creation of God. The motorbike, that is, sleek and gorgeous and fast as a bullet, all gleaming silver waiting for him to run his fingers over.

 

Not that Makoto isn’t beautiful, but he’s more interested in the bike and- _ugh_ , Ryuji groans, rolling over and pressing the back of his palms against his eyes. See, his brain’s short-circuiting, he can’t even think straight. All he needs is someone to distract him for five seconds and he’ll definitely knock out like a light.

 

His finger hovers over Akira’s name in his contacts for a while, thinking of sending a quick text to the boy all the way in the other side of Japan. Then he thinks of Morgana who would probably yell at him through a call if he tried to mess with Akira’s sleep schedule, now that it’s finally become something resembling a normal human being’s, and thinks better of it.

 

He pulls a pillow closer to him, propping his phone up on the edge and buries his face in the cloth. His moan is muffled by the fabric and he rubs a hand impatiently against his neck. There’s not much to do. Ryuji scrolls through his photo album, lingering on the group shots he has with everyone, and zooms in on Akira’s face.

 

“What’re you doing now?” He wonders out loud, tapping twice on his phone and zooming back out, swiping to another photo. It’s a close up of the two of them, Akira stretching his long arm out to take a selfie, and Ryuji’s got an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in for the shot. It’s a little blurred. They look happy.

 

Ryuji remembers this moment. It’d been a stupid victory shot after they’d dared each other to enter this one weird bar down in Shibuya. Ryuji had honestly been frightened out of his mind, adrenaline rushing through his veins even as fear made his mind go dizzy. Akira, ever the cool suave actor that he is, strolled in like he owned the place and slid into the booth next to Ryuji’s.

 

His hands had been trembling. Akira liked to act cool, but his voice broke halfway while whispering his order to Ryuji and the embarrassed flush on his face refused to go away for the next ten minutes they’d spent at that bar. They didn’t even order anything alcoholic, because they were good kids.

 

And also because they were friends with Makoto, who would have taken out her penknife and stabbed them both had she gotten a whiff of alcohol on their breaths.

 

But yeah, they went in, went out and took a hurried picture as they tried to avoid the policeman chasing them to scold them for entering bars. A stupid idea to go in while still in uniform, probably, but teens do stupid things in their youth, right? That’s what idiotic best friends are for, right?

 

“Ugh,” Ryuji murmurs into his pillow, biting his lip as he scrolls through a couple more pictures. What’s he going to do now that Akira’s halfway across Japan? The Phantom Thieves are close, but everyone has their very _best_ friend inside. Makoto, Haru and Ann are like the Three Musketeers or something, femme fatale version that are also coincidentally absolutely loaded with money. Futaba and Yusuke bond over their love for Featherman R and art, even if they have wildly difference opinions on art. Somehow, they just click.

 

And Ryuji – Ryuji used to have Akira. Fair enough, Akira was pretty much everyone’s, with how he was the star they all found themselves revolving around, but now he’s gone and Le Blanc’s empty and Ryuji is lonely.

 

He slides to another group photo of them, the seven of them crowded around Morgana, a paper hat on the cat’s head as they celebrated his birthday with a party plate of sushi. A whole party plate of sushi that was supposed to feed eight, but was completely _demolished_ by a particularly determined cat, Ryuji remembers fondly.

 

Maybe he should talk to Mishima more. Or maybe Makoto; they’re somehow been getting close lately. It might be because Ryuji’s actually trying hard in school now, since he wants to get into a university to study physiology. His mom’s working her hardest to try and help him get into a university he wants, so he needs to get the grades to qualify in the first place.

 

Makoto’s great for that. She’s a strict tutor, and much better at explaining concepts than their teachers in school. Oxford comma? Officially Ryuji’s _bitch_. Even Ann’s been giving him appraising looks at his sudden command of English. Kawakami-sensei tugged him aside during class last week and expressed her absolute delight at the vast improvement in Ryuji’s grades.

 

The thought of it makes Ryuji’s heart flutter. He hasn’t heard praise in so long, he supposes he’s a bit desperate for it. It’s nice to be appreciated, and to have his efforts noticed. He’d been first noticed for his running, but after Kamoshida and all _that_ , it’d been as if there was nothing praise-worthy about Ryuji at all. Like he was just a struggling piece of work in progress that would need ages to catch up to everyone else.

 

He blinks at his phone, vision abruptly coming into focus and staring at the picture he’s stopped at. It’s of him and Yusuke. They’re not looking into the camera, but they’re laughing about something. Ryuji’s fist is out, lightly punching against Yusuke’s arm, and Yusuke’s thrown his head back in laughter, both hands tucked casually in his pockets.

 

Ryuji stares. He doesn’t remember this picture. He doesn’t actually remember ever seeing Yusuke this relaxed, this _happy_. He’s seen Yusuke delighted, seen him in the throes of passion for his art, seen him caught up in a frenzy with a certain wilderness in his eyes, but Ryuji doubts he’s ever seen Yusuke just- happy.

 

Maybe fate’s looking down upon him right at this moment, because his phone starts to vibrate, and Ryuji almost drops it with how he jolts in response. Yusuke’s name blares across his screen, the incoming call clear as day, and Ryuji squints at the small time shown at the top right-hand corner.

 

He picks up. “You know, it’s one-fifty in the morning. You know that, right?” Ryuji asks faux casually. There’s something building up inside of him. Probably excitement, with how fizzy it feels in his chest, tiny bubbles popping as they rise up, carbon dioxide partying it up.

 

“I need a favor,” Yusuke replies without any preamble whatsoever. “There is a shop near Le Blanc, two streets away, and it is open twenty-four seven. They sell certain types of paint that I require. I-”

 

“It’s one-fifty in the morning, dude,” Ryuji reminds him, but he’s already getting up and tugging a shirt on, looking for his keys on the table. “Can’t you get it tomorrow? Is it urgent?”

 

Ryuji honestly, doesn’t actually care if it’s urgent or not. He’s bored out of his mind, he’s lonely, and Yusuke’s call is like the olive branch of friendship Ryuji’s been craving for the past one hour that he’s spent rolling around in bed. This call is a breath of fresh air. Ryuji’s going, going, _gone_. He doesn’t even know where he’s supposed to go, but he’s already rifling through his shoe shelf for a pair of running shoes.

 

The trains won’t be working at this time, right? Doesn’t matter, he’s been meaning to get in a good run now and then. It’s not like he lives far from Yogen-Jaya, or that he doesn’t know how to get there. With how often he used to visit Akira, Ryuji thinks he could probably walk there in his sleep.

 

He scribbles a note for his mom and leaves it on the table, in case she wakes up for a glass of water and finds him missing.

 

“It is urgent,” Yusuke stresses, voice tense with nerves. “I need to strike while the time is right. If my inspiration leaves me now, I fear-” his voice falters, and Ryuji has to strain to listen, “-I may never complete this piece. I have already tried dialing others, but to no avail.”

 

“Aw gee, nice to know I’m your last choice,” Ryuji laughs as he pushes his door open, quietly locking it behind him. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it does make him feel a bit bitter. Not like he expected anything different, honestly, because he’s never been all that close to Yusuke. It’s something he hopes to change.

 

This might be that crucial first step. Doing paint runs in the middle of the night. Ryuji huffs out a laugh and starts stretching. He quickly plugs his earphones in, bringing them up to slide in his ears and catches the tail end of Yusuke’s sentence.

 

“-called Akira, before I realized he could be of no help to me. Still, I was scolded by Morgana for a distressing amount of time.” Yusuke sounds perturbed at being scolded by a cat. Ryuji suppresses a chuckle. It seems like something Yusuke would do, throwing all common sense to the wind and calling Akira for help.

 

“Maybe he could have sent it through express mail,” Ryuji teases, starting off at a steady pace. “It _might_ have reached you in time.”

 

“It would not,” Yusuke replies dubiously, judgment clear in his voice. “Regardless, I need two cans of paint. I will tell you more details upon your arrival. And I will need you to deliver them to my dorm room.”

 

“At Kosei High, right?” Ryuji murmurs into the mouthpiece, feet slamming heavy against the concrete as he turns a corner. It’s kinda cold in the morning at this time, and he’s sure he can pick out a few constellations if he stopped to look up. His breath comes out in white puffs of condensed air, and a breathy giggle leaves his mouth as he veers sharply away from a streetlamp.

 

“Yes, Kosei High. It is fairly close to Le Blanc, and I am sure you will be able to reach there with my directions.” Yusuke’s words trail off, and Ryuji’s left to listen to nothing buzzing in his ears. All he hears is the loud throbbing sound of his heartbeat echoing, and he sucks in a mouthful of cold air, letting it out in a harsh breath.

 

It’s Saturday already, Ryuji thinks. Maybe if he asked nicely, he could stay over at Yusuke’s for a while. Just to stave off boredom, because he’s fairly certain he’ll perish at home. Does Yusuke have any dorm mates? Ryuji can’t think of anyone who would stand rooming with Yusuke and his eccentricities.

 

Not that those eccentricities are irritating. They’re kinda cute, actually, with how determined Yusuke gets about things, and how insistent he is about the way certain steps should be taken. Or even when he gets into one of his moods, when he’s entirely consumed by art and goes days without drinking or eating unless someone’s there to take care of him.

 

Ryuji remembers Ann dragging him to Yusuke’s dorm once, and the two of them had cleaned up while Yusuke trapped himself on his bed and refused to move from that spot. The easel had been set before him, the array of paints precariously laid out on the bed sheets, and he only ate what was put before him.

 

Ann commented that they could probably place a rock in front of him and Yusuke would attempt to eat it. Ryuji dared her to do it. They’d watched with bated breaths as Yusuke’s hand had hovered over the rock, eyes still trained insistently on the painting, and they’d rushed forward to rip the rock out of his grip when he’d actually brought it up to his mouth.

 

“I might need more than two cans,” Yusuke mutters distractedly into his phone. Ryuji perks up, the sound of his voice a much better alternative to the loud thumps of his heart trying to induce a stroke. “Maybe three. This does not seem like it will la- Are you panting?” He asks incredulously, voice rising in volume.

 

Ryuji can just see it; his brows pulling down, jaw tight with tension, confusion a stark expression on his face as he struggles to comprehend the information in front of him. “Yeeeeah,” he drags out, sucking in another harsh breath to try and keep his breathing on track. “Is it a problem?”

 

“What _are_ you doing?” Yusuke says, and Ryuji can hear his confusion. “Why are you panting? Are you- oh. The trains aren’t running now, are they?” There’s the sound of something knocking over, a scrambling of clothes, and Yusuke’s breathless voice comes back. “It’s two-ten in the morning.”

 

“Yup,” Ryuji replies, popping the last syllable on the tip of his tongue. About ten minutes of running. And there it is, the familiar sight of Le Blanc coming into vision. “And I think I know what store you’re talking about. It’s the general store, right? Ri-something. The only store I can think of that stocks paint.”

 

“Yes, it is Rizago,” the artist tells him, and falls silent. A hitched breath echoes in Ryuji’s ears, and it’s so distracting he almost runs past the street he’s supposed to turn into.

 

“I am… sorry for asking this of you so late at night,” Yusuke says after a while, his voice quiet. “I did not think you would have to run there. I… apologize for inconveniencing you. I should have gone myself.”

 

Ryuji hums in reply, eyes focused on searching for Rizago. “Mmmm, nah,” he offers, the words coming out a little harsher than he intended because of his breathing. “I don’t mind. And you need to stay in your space to maintain that inspiration, right? It’s okay.”

 

He takes a moment to calm himself, rolling his shoulders and fan himself. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to school it into something calmer and gives up with a laugh. “Okay, come on, I’m here. What colors do you need?”

 

“Salmon pink and cyan blue.” It’s a lot softer, and Ryuji has to press his earphone in to listen to what Yusuke’s saying. “Two cans of the first, and one of the second.”

 

“Two SP and one CB,” Ryuji repeats, stretching his arms out before him, and taking a step into the store. “Ahhh,” he moans, standing still for just a second, letting the cool air wash over him. “Air conditioners are _great_.”

 

“Check the cans to make sure they’re the correct colors,” Yusuke adds hurriedly. “And that they’re new. They should still be sealed.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Ryuji hums, wandering around the store and finding the paint section. He drags his gaze down the colors, searching for pink, and finds it all the way at the bottom of the shelf. He squats down, arms dangling in between his legs, and a finger reaches up to drag along the labels. “SP, SP… ah, here! Hm, y’know, why SP out of all the other colors?” He asks idly, reaching in to grab two cans. “I mean, all the pinks look the same to me, but I’m an art pleb, right?”

 

Or at least, that’s what Futaba calls him while she stands on her bed and looks down at him. She stands on the bed to get that crucial height advantage and intimidation factor. Two very necessary details in order to put the fear of Featherman R into Ryuji.

 

“It’s a very critical color that’s an essential part of my palette right now,” Yusuke tells him primly. “It has a very particular shade that I need. The same with cyan blue. I specifically chose these colors out of the entire color wheel to fit them with the image I have crafted in mind. They are-” he pauses and swallows, breath hitching, “-if I am distracting you, please tell me. I have no intention of boring you.”

 

Ryuji frowns, lips curving down even as he finally spots the elusive cyan blue and scoops it up. “What do you mean, ‘boring me’? This isn’t boring. Keep going.”

 

It makes him wonder how often someone must have told Yusuke that what he said was boring. It makes him wonder if _he’s_ accidentally told Yusuke that he’s boring. He might have, honestly. Past Ryuji was kind of a jerk. He’s gotten better over the months, with stunning reviews from Makoto and Ann, but he knows he’s still a bit of an asshole.

 

Yaldabaoth made them all grow up fast. And having to bail Akira out of jail after that? Made Ryuji grow up even faster.

 

“I’m not joking, y’know?” Ryuji murmurs into his mouthpiece as he pays. “Ah, receipt please,” he tells the cashier, who smiles at him and helpfully bags his items.

 

“Thank you!” He calls out as he leaves, the bite of the night air stinging as he shakes his limbs out. “Yusuke?”

 

“When you reach my dorm, I am sure you will understand why I chose salmon pink and cyan blue,” Yusuke says abruptly. “I will explain color theory to you another day, if you are- if you are still interested.”

 

Ryuji’s never heard Yusuke stammer before. This is kinda interesting, actually, so he goes along and agrees. “I don’t mind,” he replies, and glances at his surroundings. “So, directions to Kosei High?”

 

“Very well. Exiting Rizago, turn right and take the first turn on your left,” Yusuke announces imperiously. He sounds like Ryuji’s personal GPS, that just so happens to have an added function of keeping up a running stream of random art related babbles.

 

Ryuji’s fairly certain he catches Yusuke murmuring something about accidentally drinking his paint water _again_. He knows first hand how absolutely disgusting that tastes, since he’s an ‘art pleb’ and fell for it too, thinking that cup was filled with tea that just looked gross.

 

He laughs, shaking his head, and decides to stop at a convenience store before reaching Kosei High.

 

-=-

 

“Okay, hear me out. If you opened up commissions online, I’m _sure_ there’ll be like, tons of people lining up to pay you draw Featherman R stuff. You could be getting rich.” Futaba leans back in her chair, waving at her desktop as she scrolls through a multitude of commission advertisements. “Featherman R has a loyal following. _Really_ loyal following.”

 

“Case in point, the two of you,” Ryuji mutters under his breath, stretching and settling into a more comfortable position against Futaba’s bed. “I’ve never seen people so desperate about something. Ann with sweets doesn’t compare at all.”

 

Ann doesn’t even bother to offer a response, just leans over the pillow and whacks him, making him wince. She returns to her place on the bed, right next to Futaba’s chair, a satisfied smirk on her face. Haru offers her hand for a hi-five, and Ann slaps it with glee.

 

Futaba purses her lips at Ryuji, brows pulling down, before she shrugs and turns back to her computer. “You know what? I can’t even argue. I would pay good money for it. I’d sell my hacking services online to get money for Featherman R stuff.”

 

Yusuke sighs, tilting his head back until it hits the closet door, exposing the long pale expanse of his neck and the slight curve of his Adam’s apple. It’s rare to see him lying around so casually, Ryuji thinks, with one leg propped up and the other curved beneath it. Both of his hands still lie primly in his lap, the picture of serenity, but his legs are all over the place.

 

Given, Futaba’s room _is_ pretty cramped with all of them squeezed in, so maybe that’s why he’s all bunched up like that. But it’s a- it’s a good look, Ryuji thinks awkwardly, mouth going a little dry when Yusuke sighs again and his Adam’s apple bobs along his neck.

 

“I am not exactly comfortable with selling my services for art online,” Yusuke murmurs after a pause. “To be honest, I was not very inclined to even sell my official paintings in art shows. I felt as if I would be turning into another Madarame, if I tried to make things for the sake of selling them.”

 

He lifts his hand, as if to run it through his hair, and puts it back into his lap with doing anything. There’s a tired look in his eyes, lack of sleep coupled with stress straining at the edges, and Ryuji feels a pang of sympathy for him.

 

“If you want to be an artist as a profession, you will have to eventually sell your paintings to earn a living,” Makoto says, tilting her head in curiosity. “In the end, you still require money to pay for living expenses, daily needs, and your paint supplies, you know?”

 

“I think what he means is that he’s willing to paint for the sake of creating beautiful art for the world, instead of making it lucrative and solely as a form of income,” Haru offers with a smile. “You said that before, right? That as long as you had your paints, you would be happy. All you wanted was to paint.”

 

“And food,” Ryuji adds, grinning. “Right below paints and canvases on that list is food. Then a place to paint. Then a bed. Then-”

 

“We get the idea, Ryuji,” Makoto replies fondly, lips curling up. “Painting and essential needs, right?”

 

Yusuke nods, fingers picking at a stray thread on his shirt. Ryuji eyes him speculatively. He’s never seen that shirt before. When did Yusuke go shopping? With who? Or maybe Ann just threw a couple of shirts at him and told him to wear it, he considers, turning to squint at Ann. She’s done it to him before.

 

He’s not gonna lie and say he’s never worn any of the shirts she’s given him, though. She does have great fashion sense, even if he’ll admit it over her dead body, because she’d never let him forget it. No, wait, _his_ dead body. God, that turned a bit morbid, Ryuji thinks sheepishly.

 

“Sometimes I feel as if money would taint my artwork. Change my perception of the world and… twist my desires, for a lack of better word choice.” He looks away, directing his gaze to the ground.

 

“Hmm.” Futaba hums, spinning around on her chair as she thinks, head tilted up to the ceiling with her eyes closed. “I mean, you still need money. In the end, no matter how much we hate it or whatever, money does make the world go round.”

 

“Yes, but-”

 

“How about you just paint whatever you want, create beautiful stuff for the sake of it, sell it through someone else so you won’t feel any heart pangs over money, and then just keep what you need and give the rest to charity?” Ryuji cuts in absentmindedly. He stills, and a frown grows on his face. “Oh wait, that was what Madarame said he was doing, right?”

 

Makoto looks thoughtful. “That’s… actually not a bad idea. If Yusuke doesn’t want to intrinsically link his artwork to money, selling it through a proxy would be far easier. He could wash his hands off all things related to exchanging his art for money. Or maybe even through art auctions, so you don’t have to set a price on your paintings yourself.”

 

“And he’s talented enough to do it, too!” Ann comments cheerfully, tugging the pillow closer to her body. “People will definitely want to buy your art. They’re always so gorgeous.”

 

“Even if you don’t understand his more abstract ones?” Ryuji teases, nudging her leg from where it’s pressed up against his shoulder. She aims a kick at him in retaliation, sticking her tongue out when he ducks away, laughing.

 

“It’s still gorgeous anyways,” she insists, turning to offer Yusuke a kind smile. “You really are good at what you do, you know?”

 

Haru looks up from where she’s been staring contemplatively at Futaba’s bed, and hesitantly opens her mouth. “I think Futaba’s idea is great, actually. Doing art commissions online could be a start to getting used to earning money through your art. I understand you’re worried about having your art ruined by the allure of money, but – and I don’t mean to come off as rude – in this world, you’ll eventually have to get used to at least the basic transactions of exchanging goods and services for income.”

 

She flushes when she catches everyone staring at her, and hurriedly continues. “I wanted to make a café to serve coffee to people, coffee that I brewed myself, and I had considered just letting it be free to the public as an apology for my father’s actions, and as a way of me giving back to the people. But my VP disagreed, and he said I shouldn’t sell myself short out of misguided charity.

 

“To run a business is to make it profitable. I can serve free cups of coffee and snacks to those who really can’t pay, of course, but to those who can, there’s no reason to make it free. If they are willing and have the ability to pay, we should give them the opportunity to pay for our skills. In the end, our intentions are good. We do good things for people, to people, and if you’re concerned about having to appeal to the public just to earn money instead of painting what you really want to do, you shouldn’t. There’ll always be an audience out there for you.”

 

Haru raises a hand to rub the back of her neck in embarrassment, fingers twisting in the bed sheets. “I might have digressed a bit from the original point. I’m… still not very good at giving speeches.”

 

“No, no, Haru, that was great!” Futaba says in awe, eyes wide and unblinking. “Is this what it’s like to be an adult?”

 

“I’m not an adult yet, Futaba,” Haru replies in amusement, shaking her head. “This is just what I’ve learnt from running a business.”

 

Makoto nods, placing a supportive hand on Haru’s shoulder. “The Okumura food chain is recovering rather well after… everything, isn’t it? You’re doing a brilliant job, Haru.”

 

Ryuji thinks Haru’s honestly doing a fantastic job of reviving the Okumura food chain, but he’s a little distracted by how stricken Yusuke looks from Haru’s last sentence. About the whole appealing to the public thing. That’s being populist, right?

 

He hopes he got the word right. There’s an itch in his fingers to dig his phone out and trawl through his dictionary, but Ann will probably snatch it away and go on a tirade about how they’re banning phones from meetings because everyone needs to be ‘present and aware of each other’.

 

Makoto should never have brought Ann to that workshop on how to better interact with people. Bringing Futaba was okay, since admittedly the girl needs the help, but Ann? Bubbly model who feels completely at ease talking to people? No. Noooo.

 

“You okay?” He murmurs, foot reaching out to nudge against Yusuke’s knee. The artist jolts, storm cloud on his face suddenly clearing as he blinks at Ryuji, and his face settles into a slight smile.

 

It’s not a comforting sight, since there’s still tension lining his jaw. Ryuji raises an eyebrow, letting his ankle rest against Yusuke’s knee and digs it in.

 

Akira always said he had sharp ankles that hurt when Ryuji accidentally kicked out at night during their sleepovers. Maybe there’s some truth to it, he thinks, when Yusuke bites his lip and scoots away, carefully removing his knee from Ryuji’s reach.

 

“Someone once told me I should look into painting things that people would want to buy, not just things I felt inspired by, or wanted to paint. He said that was how being an artist worked.” Yusuke scowls, worry tugging at the dip between his eyebrows. “I disagreed. And then he told me I wouldn’t survive in this industry.”

 

“Oh.” Ryuji blinks and tilts his head. There’s only one thing to say. “Well, fuck him,” he says casually, leaning back to pillow his hands under his head. “You do you, right? Do whatever you want. Be whatever you want. Just because some nasty adults out there are in love with money and want to be _populist_ , doesn’t mean you have to be the same.”

 

“Ooh, big word,” Ann compliments, and Ryuji looks up, beaming at her. “Makoto teach you that?”

 

“No,” the council president replies serenely, pride filtering in through her voice. “I’m sure he learnt it all by himself from the books I suggested he read to expand his vocabulary, especially when it comes to essay writing.”

 

Ryuji brightens at that, the smile easily sliding onto his face. “I did,” he says smugly, pride radiating off his entire frame. “But, I mean, I wouldn’t even have read the books without Makoto giving me recommendations. So thanks, really, just- _thanks_ ,” he stresses, hoping he can convey enough of his gratitude.

 

At least 80% of it reaches Makoto, he hopes, because color starts to seep into her cheeks and she decidedly turns away, refusing to look him in the eye. It startles a laugh out of him, eyes closing from the force of it, shoulders shaking as he presses the back of his hand against his mouth.

 

He opens his eyes to see Yusuke staring straight at him, brows furrowed like he’s stumped on a particularly hard math question. Ryuji immediately sympathizes, because math is a bitch on a good day and hell on a bad day, but he’s confused why Yusuke thinks he’s apparently as difficult as math.

 

Yusuke holds a hand out, a clenched fist with his thumb extended, tilting his head to the side as he stares at Ryuji. There’s something unnerving about his gaze, the way his dark orbs seem to pierce right through Ryuji, staring guilelessly until Ryuji accidentally spills all of his life secrets even if Yusuke didn’t ask for them.

 

“Ryuji.” Yusuke straightens, gaze turning serious. Ryuji automatically straightens as well, the pressure of the situation getting to him. He steels himself for what he’ll hear next. With Yusuke, it could honestly be anything. He starts to think of the next time he’ll be available to go on a paint run, or possible days he’ll be available to help Yusuke scout his next model, or- “-will you be my next model?”

 

“Huh? Uh, sure,” Ryuji says, the words dropping from his lips before the question even processes. It’s not hard, to say yes to whatever Yusuke wants. Mostly because the boy asks for so little all the time. And then the question flickers into his mind.

 

His hands fly up, pinwheeling in the air as he slides down the side of Futaba’s bed and ends up in a half squashed position on the ground. “Wait, what?” He asks, eyes wide. His shirt rucks up against his stomach, pushed up by him skidding across the ground, and he rubs a hand across his face.

 

“Me?” He can hear the disbelief in his own voice. “Uh, not that I want to question the expert, but… you sure?”

 

“Why not?” Ann peers over the edge of the bed to lock eyes with him. There’s a supportive smile on her face, one that instantly makes Ryuji feel better about this whole situation. “You’d be a great model. I keep asking you to come to one of my shoots but you always refuse.”

 

“I’m not-” he swallows, looking away. “I’m not exactly you. Or Akira. I don’t know how to stand around and pose.”

 

“There’s always a first time for everything,” Ann reassures him. “Maybe Yusuke doesn’t even want you to stand. You could sit on a chair and fall asleep. You never know.”

 

“Him sleeping _would_ mean a still model to reference from,” Yusuke contemplates carefully. He eyes Ryuji, and his lips curl up in what Ryuji thinks must be amusement. “You- what does Ann call it? You’re gorgeous.”

 

Ryuji’s absolutely sure he turns as red as his shirt. As red as the Featherman R figurine Futaba has carefully placed on her shelf. “Sure,” he repeats, once, and bites his lip, because he’s not quite sure what he’ll stammer out when his heart is roaring tidal waves through his ears.

 

-=-

 

Modeling for Yusuke isn’t as hard as Ryuji thought it would be. The first time it happened, he remembers being stiff as a board, trying to maintain good posture and a faint (anguished) smile on his face while perched on a rickety stool with three legs.

 

Yusuke had stared at him for a long moment, before a faint laugh escaped his lips and he asked Ryuji to get off the chair.

 

He had honestly thought that would be the last of it. That Yusuke would decide Ryuji was a tragic model who couldn’t pose even if he was broke and it was the only job he could find, and he would gently tell Ryuji that maybe he would find another model. It wouldn’t even hurt, because Ryuji is painfully aware of how awkwardly he poses.

 

Then Yusuke had invited Ryuji out to dinner – at a tiny, cheap, coffee-curry place known as Le Blanc, but _still_ – and asked him to model again. And again. And again.

 

The artist asks it with a hopeful smile on his face, eyes glittering with anticipation and Ryuji can physically see Yusuke hold his breath, as if Ryuji would ever say no to him. It’s scarily easy to say yes.

 

“You look like you’re thinking about something important,” Yusuke murmurs quietly, his voice echoing in the messy dorm. Easels propped up haphazardly against walls, canvases stocked up in shelves and piled up on the ground; Ryuji’s certain that there should be a laundry basket somewhere in this room, but it’s buried underneath all the painting supplies.

 

He straightens, blinking sleep out of his eyes, and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Did I?” Ryuji laughs, glancing up to lock eyes with Yusuke. He’s sprawled across the floor, leaning against a side of a shelf bought from IKEA and hurriedly thrown together. He’s honestly surprised it’s still standing straight, with how lopsided it looks.

 

Yusuke looms over him with a canvas on his lap and five cans of paint precariously balanced on his bed sheets. It’s as if the guy doesn’t care if he shifts wrongly and paint spills over his covers. Heck, knowing Yusuke, he might just see it as another form of art.

 

“Just thinking about the first time I modeled for you,” Ryuji continues on. The curtains are drawn, so there’s barely any sunlight filtering through even though it’s probably three in the afternoon. Yusuke’s switched the white fluorescent lights for yellow ones, insisting warmer lighting throws the shadows on his face into a different perspective.

 

Ryuji isn’t one to argue with the genius sitting before him, so he just makes himself comfortable wherever he is and lounges until Yusuke gives him some sort of artistic direction.

 

Yusuke pauses, brush lingering over the canvas, and he looks away from his canvas for what must be the first time in hours. Ryuji swears the guy doesn’t feel pain, because his neck would be screaming for mercy if he hunched over a canvas for so long. His dedication to his work is impressive, but it likely will also send Yusuke to the hospital many times in the future for health-related concerns.

 

“It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it?” Yusuke says wryly, and he changes his grip on the brush. His fingers are long, Ryuji realizes. There’s barely any fat on his wrists and knuckles, probably left over scars from Madarame and his starvation policy, but it makes his bone structure very, very distinct.

 

Yusuke has cheekbones that could be more effective than his Persona’s kanto, Ryuji thinks in a daze, and shakes himself back to reality when he realizes Yusuke’s been staring at him for a while.

 

“Sorry. Did you say something?” He asks in embarrassment, running a hand down his face. “I think I’m kinda tired. Afternoon naps hit me hard, y’know?”

 

After knowing Yusuke for so long, Ryuji would like to think he’s gotten to know the guy a little better. For instance, he thinks he would be able to tell when Yusuke’s about to drop a bomb on him. The sudden glint of light in his eyes, maybe. Or when his shoulders stiffen up in excitement.

 

None of that happens. Yusuke smiles that tiny half-smile Ryuji’s seen only directed at him, and says, “I said, I think you’ve grown more handsome over our modeling sessions. It’s quite interesting, how you never cease to impress me every time.”

 

The heat that rushes into his face can’t be explained by anything. Ryuji’s mouth drops open, desperately trying to find something smooth to throw back at this absolutely oblivious artist, and decides running away is the better choice. He buries his head in his hands, pressing his palms forcefully against his cheeks and forcing down a whimper when he feels how hot they are.

 

Really, the lines Yusuke throws out sometimes should be banned from ever leaving his mouth. Something that sounds like a dying cat echoes throughout the room. It takes Ryuji a while to realize it’s him, muffled groans pouring into his hands.

 

“Did I say something wrong?” Yusuke asks immediately. There’s alarm in his voice, and Ryuji’s head shoots up, hands waving around so frantically he’s impressed he doesn’t knock a paint can right off Yusuke’s bed.

 

“No!” He yells, and inwardly dies a bit because with his hands off his face, there’s no way to hide how flushed he is right now. “No, you didn’t say anything uh- _wrong_. You just caught me off guard. A guy gets embarrassed when someone tells him how good he looks, you know?”

 

And Ryuji, being such a _bro_ and deciding maybe Yusuke should hear some compliments every once in a while that isn’t about his artwork, blindly tosses out, “I think you’re pretty hot too!”

 

His voice goes embarrassingly high while he says it, and Ryuji decides on the spot that he has never regretted anything more except those words. He will tell Akira about this later, screaming at him through his phone, and Akira and Morgana will laugh about his plight, the evil demons that they are.

 

Akira tells him to ask Yusuke out like it’s something _easy_. Like Ryuji can just drop it during casual conversation and let it run its course. Morgana agrees with Akira, but he’s a goddamn cat, so his opinion doesn’t matter at all.

 

If he’s being perfectly honest, he doesn’t know how this even started. That one lonely night, maybe, when he was bored out of his mind and Yusuke was a light in the dark. Then he remembers paying more attention to Yusuke; the sweep of his dastardly long eyelashes, the sharp curve of his collarbone stretching to meet his shoulders, the sway of his fingers across a canvas – it’s as if Yusuke can’t help but draw Ryuji’s eye.

 

And the artist’s focus is something that almost suffocates Ryuji. The weight of Yusuke’s gaze on his outstretched body, slowly dragging up every inch of him to imprint it onto paper makes Ryuji shiver. He reads Ryuji like a child’s book, quickly catching any change in emotions and throwing them out into the spotlight and forcing him to meet them head-on. Ryuji didn’t _think_ he’d like that, but apparently his stupid self just might.

 

It is terribly, terribly easy to fall into loving Yusuke, Ryuji realizes.

 

And that is absolutely terrifying, because Yusuke is talented at many things and extremely capable of placing names to emotions, but he still doesn’t quite understand the concept of love.

 

Ryuji doesn’t blame him, but he doesn’t want to be Yusuke’s test drive either.

 

-=-

 

This is how Ryuji knows he’s in deep: he sits down for all twelve seasons of Futaba and Yusuke’s annual Featherman R re-run throughout the course of three months just because Yusuke asked him to.

 

Futaba gives him a weird look every time, and Ryuji just shoots a helpless one back in return, before huddling against the side of the couch and curling up beneath the blanket. Today the air conditioner is on at full blast, Akira and Morgana are mocking him through his phone, and Yusuke is sitting at the other end of the couch because Futaba’s holding the popcorn.

 

She might be an actual goddamn genius, because she forces the popcorn into Yusuke’s hands and makes him switch seats with her. Ryuji swears he didn’t breathe a word of his haphazard affections for the oblivious artist, but maybe she can read minds. Futaba doesn’t even glance at him as she flounces off to the other end of the very long couch, but Ryuji promises in his mind that he’ll help her take Comicon by storm the next time it comes around.

 

“Are you cold?” Yusuke asks quietly, pushing his blanket over to Ryuji. Futaba shushes them, bright eyes trained on the huge LED screen television that might make Ryuji blind if he’s not careful, and he swallows tightly.

 

If Yusuke throws his blanket over Ryuji, then Ryuji will have 1.5 blankets _and_ be pressed up against Yusuke’s side. There is no downside to this situation, except maybe his mind blanking out.

 

“Yes,” he whispers before he can stop himself, and huddles closer to Yusuke.

 

It’s warm. It makes his head pound and Ryuji does his best to maintain his cool while pointedly ignoring the way Yusuke’s sharp shoulder digs into his bicep. There are many things he can think of to pretend he’s not currently nestled up against his crush under a blanket while watching a kid’s show. His upcoming exams, for one; even the thought of Akira choking on his laughter at his current predicament would be a better idea.

 

Then Yusuke pulls one of the moves Ryuji’s only seen in movies. He stretches, muscles twitching with the effort and the relieved groan that sags through his body does bad things to Ryuji’s mind.

 

And then one hand comes casually behind Ryuji’s shoulders, a feather-light touch that almost catches him unaware, if not for the fact that he’s been painfully aware of every thing Yusuke does for the past three months and a bit.

 

“You okay?” He murmurs, throat scratchy. “Tired?”

 

“My arm was cramping up. Stretching and moving it into different positions are good methods to avoid prolonged stress on my muscles.” Yusuke glances down briefly, blinking at Ryuji. “Is it uncomfortable?”

 

It’s actually very comfortable, Ryuji thinks wildly, even as he can feel tension racing across his shoulders and making his nerves light up. _Too_ comfortable. So ideal it’s terrifying.

 

There’s a palatable silence that lingers between them, and Ryuji’s almost impressed that he can hold Yusuke’s attention this long when Featherman R is playing in the background behind them. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can almost imagine-

 

“If you’re going to kiss, please don’t do it in front of the television,” Futaba says out of nowhere. It’s loud and abrupt enough to jar Ryuji into movement, scrabbling to get away from Yusuke and pushing his spine into the curve of the couch. “Not in front of my beloved show, please.”

 

“Futaba,” Yusuke says almost chidingly, voice low. His eyes look half-lidded in the dim light, and he seems- angry? Upset? Distraught? One of them, Ryuji decides randomly, and it’s probably because accusing Yusuke of engaging in such activities in front of Featherman R is sacrilegious, or something.

 

“What?” She says, voice going high with indignation. She even reaches out for the remote to pause the show, pulling the entire bowl of popcorn onto her lap and puffing her cheeks out like an excited chipmunk. “I don’t want to see you two go at it. We have a guest room upstairs. Sojiro isn’t even _in_ – you’ll never get a better chance, but don’t do it in front of my television!”

 

“We are not going to just-”

 

Ryuji finds bravado he didn't know he had, as if some lingering remnant of Captain Kidd revs up in his chest and kicks him into gear; he opens his mouth and the stupidest thing he’s ever said comes out of it.

 

“We might as well make use of it, right?”

 

Yusuke’s head spins around so quickly Ryuji almost fears he might get whiplash and strain his neck. Futaba isn’t much better, her eyes bugging out and a hand immediately scooping a bunch of popcorn into her mouth.

 

For a moment, the crunch of sickly sweet caramel popcorn in Futaba’s mouth is all Ryuji hears.

 

“I’m not saying we’ll do anything weird inside it!” He suddenly shouts. It only just occurred to him what his words might have sounded like. “Just to _talk_. To talk it out. Because there’s something pretty weird going on between us and maybe we should figure out what it is. Right?!”

 

Ryuji could have sworn he saw Yusuke’s face close off a little at the ‘not do anything weird inside it’ part, but it feels like he’s hallucinating this entire interaction, so he isn’t sure.

 

“I was not aware you thought this was weird,” Yusuke says finally, and Ryuji can see his fingers close into tight fists on his lap. “I had thought that – maybe there was something. Something I wasn’t sure of, but I knew I did not dislike it.”

 

He swallows, jaw working furiously as he looks Ryuji in the eyes. “If I have made you uncomfortable in any way, Ryuji, I apologize.”

 

There is _nothing_ Yusuke has to be sorry for, Ryuji thinks. Then his brain catches up and splutters to a halt almost immediately after.

 

Yusuke was – Yusuke was into this entire mess they were in?! The weird not-dates, the skinship, the maybe-not-as-subtle-as-he-thought attempts to check Yusuke out; they _worked_?!

 

He knows he’s gaping unattractively and Yusuke looks like he’s a step closer to becoming one with the couch for every second that Ryuji remains unresponsive.

 

“Alright, I’m out.” Futuba switches the television off and flounces up to her room, entirely unimpressed. Every step she takes on the stairs echoes in Ryuji’s empty brain and he tries to swallow around his heavy tongue.

 

“Don’t apologise,” he manages. “I- uh, can I just check if we’re on the same page? That you and me- we both know there’s something going on, right?”

 

If Ryuji goes any hotter he might spontaneously combust on the spot. “I don’t know how to say it so I’m just gonna throw it out, okay? You can’t laugh!”

 

“I won’t.” There’s a tinge of red on Yusuke’s cheekbones, climbing higher the longer he stares at Ryuji. “I could say it first, if you’d like. I-”

 

His pride makes him cut the artist off in the middle of his sentence, because he’s been pining for god knows how long and he wants to be the one to say it first. He wants to be the one to unnerve Yusuke even more than he already is and see how far that flush leads down his body. “Yusuke, I- I _really_ like you. Like, _immensely_.”

 

Immediately after, Ryuji feels the urge to run up the stairs and join Futaba in her room. He resists the urge to grip the pillow and bury his face in it. A yell is building up in his throat at breakneck speed; he needs to find a way to release all the pent up energy and stress that’s piling up in the face of Yusuke’s slightly open mouth.

 

“Ryuji, I thought we were already dating.”

 

The words punch him in the chest and make him lose whatever breath he was building up for his yell. Ryuji thinks he chokes on thin air, turning to the side and heaving up nothing as he coughs.

 

A hysterical laugh burns his lips. “Uh, what?” He asks, feeling like he’s been asking for clarification a lot recently. “Sorry – can you backtrack? Repeat that?”

 

Yusuke bites his lip and Ryuji wants to bite it for him, but settles for reaching out and gripping one of Yusuke’s hands, uncurling it from where it’s doing its best to make a hole in the blanket.

 

His hand is warm. It makes Ryuji worry about sweating too much and ruining the whole hand-holding event.

 

“I had assumed – clearly, I had assumed too much – but that one time you burst into my dorm and told me you were taking me to a new shop near your house because you wanted me to try their famous ramen…” Yusuke pauses, and his fingers tighten around Ryuji’s wrist. “I thought you were asking me out on a date. I even consulted Futaba. And Haru. They said it was likely one.”

 

“You mean I’ve been dating you since two months ago without knowing about it?”

 

Ryuji pinches himself so hard it makes him wince out loud, and Yusuke looks mildly alarmed at the bruise forming on his forearm. This is-

 

“I could have been dating you for _real_ since two months ago?!”

 

The urge to scream returns. It makes him want to tear his hair out in frustration at how gloriously blind he’s been. This is a good development, right? They’re talking about it, so now they can be like, official, right?

 

Yusuke looks torn between appearing embarrassed and delighted. The flush on his face is still there, difficult to see because of the lack of good lighting, but Ryuji wants to frame this moment for the rest of his life.

 

“If you want to start now, _properly_ , I wouldn’t mind,” Yusuke murmurs quietly, softly, and Ryuji struggles to keep a stupidly big grin off his mouth.

 

That whole gig about not wanting to be Yusuke’s test drive or whatever? Yeah, he takes it all back. That was a decision made back when Ryuji was still painfully unaware he actually stood a goddamn chance. Now the stakes are different. Now, Ryuji’s striking _big_ _money_ in the casino.

 

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says, lips spreading into a smile. “I really, _really_ wouldn’t mind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review on your way out or drop by my [twitter](https://twitter.com/zxrysky) and [tumblr](http://zxrysky.tumblr.com/)


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